Forget-me-not
by Penrose Quinn
Summary: Bluer than the poignant flowers, the ancient sea, within those eyes—what bleeds more than memory lost? [Chain Pair. Fem!Kurapika. Drabble Series. AU.]
1. Lethe

Chain Pair. Fem!Blue-eyed Kurapika. Drabble Series. AU. Nonlinear events. Alternate realities (or reincarnations, your pick). A take on the crueler side to the idea of soul mates. May be an antithesis to **Lycoris Radiata**.

 **Warning:** _Mature and dark themes. Drowning. Implications of suicide. Sexual implications; inexplicit._

* * *

i. _cleanse the mind, purge the soul, deep, deep within this watery oblivion._

* * *

From the other side of the river, he is soaked in blue. Blue that calms, blue that loves—blue which is impassive and incomplete, as it seeps through his very bones.

He stands among the rocks, weathering and wavering in his futile search—and what exactly is he searching for? It is this mystery that lures him to those depths and the unfathomed pull that plunges him further into seeking this indefinable desire of _something_. Something, he believes, is so close, lapping against his knees, licking on his sleeves. Drawn, drowned, driven—he dives down into the deep dark chasm of what is almost like the sea, breathless and beautiful beneath.

But it is lacking— _what, really?_

His eyes are blurring, and in that instant, he thinks he is going blind by the blueness of it all. It is when he rises up in bubbling breaths and hurting nostrils that he realizes his reflection is almost unidentifiable, warping further and further into a formless mold of a man. A grim smile ripples on his lips. If Narcissus desires for himself, he desires for his soul. In the water is his truth.

So, he tries again, and alas, he fails (in his damnation).

Because even if the moon ascends high, he still feels the red sun spill from his fingers, and as he grasps for it through his empty palms, the running stream laments in his despair. He waits for the tide until the endless blue comes close to caress him from his neck, sinking him layer upon layer.

Drowning, however, feels far more tragic when the pain (from the water inside his lungs) dulls in comparison when he is breathing in the surface.

—

From the other side of the river, she is submersed in deep cerulean, painted in its colors, drowned in delight.

Until her lungs crave for oxygen and she parts from these depths before she perishes—and when she does, the air knocks her from her senses, and she struggles in this awareness. As she wanders (wondering if there are heavy chains on her feet, on her heart), she comes to a realization that she treads without destination, in endless streams and circles.

A ripple forms beneath her, and in her bemusement, she questions her very likeness shone on the river. And then she questions herself. She attempts to grasp for her reflection, until her colors almost become colorless, almost become blue, but the water insists on sliding over her palms, and from her fingertips trickle drops of _I am I am I am_.

Dribbling down her dry tongue, the water tastes of a solution of cold iron and _something_. Something, she thinks, which makes her tremble, terrified, and ignites a stirring within to act in desperation. To break free from the chains of something— _something_ that reaches, binds her to its detestable fate, but even the _tap tap_ of the river almost sounds like clattering metal. From the bottom of her gut, she decides to run.

So, she tries, and alas, she fails (in her damnation).

Because even if the sun descends to the horizon, the pale moon mocks her from its threshold through its silvery spidery fingers, and as she wades for escape beneath those unfathomable depths, the water embraces her in its kindness. _Come_ , it beckons in gentle waves that promise of relief. So she does, until her tears turn to pearls and her smothered breaths to old dreams.

Engulfed whole, she is cradled by a river that is as vast as the ancient sea.

—

" _One day, we'll meet again,"_ echo a voice from the shores, swish-swish, _". . . again . . . again . . ."_

—

It all comes to full circle when the water becomes their graves. In this life, no one remembers.

* * *

 **A/N:** Got inspired while writing an essay for Nietzsche and watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

An **update** for Lycoris Radiata and Lycoris Aurelia: final chapters should be posted somewhere in March.


	2. Phantom

ii. _you and i, washed ashore_ _—_ _and adrift, oceans apart, once again._

* * *

The first time they meet, the world is reborn in rain.

At the time, she reminisces that there are ringed ripples on the pavement with puddles as wide and immense as an ocean; in this quiet place, they wink at her in silvery flecks of light behind the backdrop of an unromantic Monday morning, skies roiling with ashen clouds that seek to rinse the earth. There is a bridge far beyond the path that gleams like a silver rod, even though it has been old and rusting up close.

Though the figure of a man on that bridge draws her attention, as he clings on the edge of the railings, like a spider barely dangling on a convoluted web. And thus, it begins here, of all places. She confronts him for a second or two, and her reality appears to bend around his presence. He seems too surreal to be true, too ethereal to be human—and some part of her wishes to touch him, because despite their proximity, he remains so distant in the planes of existence.

He is the first to speak, however. "Have I met you before?"

She shakes her head. "I don't think so."

"You look familiar."

"You're not."

 _Who are you?_

"I'm no one," he tells her, as if he has heard her thoughts—only for her to realize that she has said them aloud. He smiles, but there are shadows under his eyes, like he's seen so much terror in his nights. But he is so calm, so closed, and just as cold.

"Why are you here?" she asks not unkindly, as her eyes carves his likeness in her mind.

"Why are _you_?"

She doesn't answer.

—

They meet a second time, and then a third, a fourth—his presence almost feels like limbo, the tail-end of an enduring dream.

 _Or a memory_ , she corrects.

"You look familiar," he always says that to her though he never elaborates further. He steals a glance at her face. "I think it's your eyes."

"My eyes?" she echoes back in disbelief.

"Your eyes," he affirms in a voice so naturally smooth and unnaturally sentimental. "I don't believe I've seen quite like them before."

She scoffs at that. "If you hadn't, then it isn't familiar."

His smile becomes a conundrum, the riddle of one's deepest, darkest secret.

"If it wasn't familiar, I wouldn't have remembered."

—

"The thought of suicide is a great consolation," he says in measured tones, "by means of it one gets through many a dark night."

Her brows furrow in recognition. "Nietzsche?"

"Yes," he answers. "You've read his works?"

"A few selected ones," and then in a careful voice, she whispers: "we can talk more about it, if you're at the other side of the railing."

He sighs under his breath. "I believe it's quite too late for that."

She just doesn't understand.

—

"Will you always be here?"

"I don't have quite a choice in that matter."

She musters the courage to ask: "What do you mean?"

He stares at the great lake under his feet. "You should know it by now . . ."

—

She finds a familiar portrait from the daily obituaries. In the morning, she remembers him in resentful tears.


	3. Wedlock

iii. _swallowed by the tide, we wear smiles just as deep and sunken beneath._

* * *

He follows the curve of her pale lips shape into words: "Promise me," she whispers in feeble forced tones. "We'll be together."

 _Together_ , the word echoes like a curse in the dark of the night. He almost laughs in a manner that can be likened to a sob.

 _To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better._

Born alone in the world and separate of its confines, they tread the earth with invisible tethers on their ankles in a bond that can never be broken. Circumstance dictates them to be in a union—inevitably consummated in each life cycle with the loveliest loveless lies.

Love is their delusion.

 _For worse._

"Together," he repeats but he doesn't want this. So does she. He keeps up to their pretenses. "Always."

Too weak to oppose their fate, too worn to separate, they surrender to destiny with their hands wrung onto each other's necks.

In a tired, tired voice, she asks, "Forever?"

In a tired, tired smile, he tells her, "Forever."

 _Until death do us part._


End file.
